Before we left, he asked me how many sessions the judge had ordered, to which I responded that I was under the impression that as the therapist, he should decide that. I told him my next hearing was on November 17, so he graciously set our next appointment for November 19, reasoning that if our case was resolved during the hearing, there would be no need for us to attend this next appointment.
Meanwhile, on Tuesday, November 10, we drove to the Attorney General’s Office at 8 a.m. for the other psychological evaluations required by the judge. After more than an hour’s wait, the therapist came down to the waiting room to get us. I went up first. This was the second doctor to inform me that this entire situation with the custody of my children had been unnecessary from the start. The PGN does not remove children who have other family members willing and able to care for them, as in my case. However, since we had been ill-advised and my mother and brother had requested from the state that my children be protected legally, we were now in this insufferable system created to protect children from their parents . . . in this case, from me.
While my children had their sessions that day at the PGN, I decided to make an appointment with the social worker, as had been ordered by the court. This social worker, who was assigned by name, had failed to visit my home as the judge had ordered and I was not happy with her. As it turned out, she had tried to do her job, but had attempted to visit my brother’s home since that was the address originally entered in my case file. She showed me the paperwork and I realized that my address and my cell number were also incorrect.
“My hearing is scheduled for next week,” I said, “so I would appreciate it if you could visit us and report before then.”
“Let’s begin working on the socioeconomic study right now then,” she responded. “I will do my best to visit your home on Wednesday or Thursday, but please be patient with me because I do not have a car.”
Here was yet another good person filled with good intentions and ready to do her job, but drowning in a bureaucratic, inefficient, state system that lacks the resources and the tools to help people carry out their duties.
It was close to noon when my mother, my son, Fabián, and the therapist came down the stairs after their sessions had concluded. To my dismay, just as Fabián was placing his foot on the second-to-last step, he tripped on his rubber boots, hit his face against my mother’s knee, and fell to the floor. I ran to him, picked him up, made sure he was fine, and then immediately noticed his left eye was red. Our next hearing before the judge was in a week’s time, and by then it would surely be purple! Thank God it all happened in front of the therapist, the receptionist, and a waiting area full of patients. I told the receptionist I was worried about Fabian’s eye turning purple and the judge thinking it had been abuse. She suggested I take him next door to see the PGN doctor. He would give me a letter explaining what had happened. By now I knew that anything could and would be used against me. Before I left, I turned around and saw the people in the waiting area, all nodding their heads in unison. It was a comical reaction. We were all there because of a judge’s order; we understood one another.
That day, after dropping my mom off at her house, I kept going over what the therapist had told me, how I had been ill-advised and how this whole situation with my children was completely unnecessary and could’ve been avoided. I had tried my best to remain positive and calm throughout all this upheaval, but that day my rage got the best of me. What I had been led to believe was the sound decision had turned out to be one of the worst decisions of my life, filling my days with pain and anguish and causing me to lose precious time with court-mandated therapy sessions that none of us needed. I was so frustrated and angry with myself for having allowed this into our lives that tears welled up in my eyes, and for the first time since this entire ordeal exploded with my husband more than a year earlier, I cried in front of my children.
As we drove home, they chatted away in the back seat, asking me questions that I could not answer because I was choked up inside. It was not until we got home and they got out of the car that they saw my red, swollen eyes. Immediately they sprang into action, hugging me and kissing me all over, just as I do with them when they are sad. Moved by their reaction, I took a deep breath and said, “Mami also gets sad sometimes and that’s OK. Soon I will be fine, because your kisses and hugs cure everything.”
The following day, Wednesday, November 11, at 2:30 p.m., we received a visit from the social worker at the PGN, who came to assess my children’s current living conditions at my home. “It is obvious that your children are very well taken care of in every sense,” she said before she left.
—
During those three months after my time in the holding cell, I found myself crying constantly, sometimes it seemed as if for days on end. My body, my mind, and my heart were spent. Not only was I dealing with an accusation of criminal association in a criminal case for embezzlement (fraud), and a family case at PGN in the hope of regaining custody of my children, I had also decided to file a lawsuit against the magazine Contrapoder, which had written articles about my husband and me, but most importantly, had published unblurred photos of my children’s faces, which they had taken from my Facebook page. This was unforgivable and as much as I did not want another legal battle, I could not let this go unpunished. My children had already been harmed, and I was now determined to try and make sure that this did not happen to anyone else.
So, there I was, suddenly facing the abrupt end of my marriage, an impending divorce, my unforeseen unemployment, unexpected legal proceedings, and the damage caused by tarnishing my good name and reputation in the public eye. I’m sure any single one of these situations would cause most people to temporarily crumble, yet somehow, I was still standing.
As much as my loved ones insisted that I should remain strong, that I could do it, that I had everything it takes to survive this enormous blow in my life, there were times when I couldn’t see it clearly and I just needed to vent and rest. Despite every word of wisdom and gesture of love and support, I felt no one truly understood me; I sometimes felt very alone.
—
November 17, 2015, finally arrived and I anxiously set out for my hearing before a family judge, hoping that we’d be able to resolve this issue once and for all. I was much calmer this time. I had wonderful people attesting to my ability as a mother and I had concluded that the worst thing that could happen had already happened. The situation could only remain the same or change for the better. We went through two hours of legal proceedings, testimonies, reports, and finally the judge decided to suspend my mother’s temporary guardianship and return it to me. The social worker would still visit us every two months for the next six months, my mother and I would continue with our designated parenting classes, and my children and I would continue our state therapy until the therapist deemed it no longer necessary.
I was hopeful that the state therapist who had told us on our first visit that we were fine would give us the all clear, and my children and I would be allowed to put this latest episode behind us. So, after our hearing, I eagerly called this therapist to tell him the news and to cancel our appointment, but I was informed that therapists cannot speak to their patients unless it is during scheduled appointments. Bureaucracy = ineptitude = inefficiency = no logic = lack of common sense . . . welcome to my new world.
—
November 27 rolled in and I turned forty-seven years old. I wasn’t planning on celebrating my birthday that year, so my mother invited her best friend, her friend’s daughter, my children, and me out for breakfast. Later, my friend Anabelle invited us to her yearly Friday Thanksgiving celebration and she had a surprise cake for me. Then, several friends insisted on coming over to my home to celebrate. So I went from not wanting to celebrate to rejoicing in the presence of my loved ones, regardless